Grace Slick would be less than proud to see how far you’ve fallen. A broken heart does not warrant broken bones, and the guilt grows like a rainbow rose on St. Valentines Day.
Another shovel, shoulders sore. Damn it…stop thinking about your self.
The sound of the dirt burying her milky eyed gaze only riles your blood even more.
Your palms are sweaty. They slip, the worn wood of the shovel’s handle depositing a sliver deep into your life line. Blood pools, welling up in the cusp of your palm, hot, burning. Reality comes crashing down.
Run now. Love sucks.
This week Lance and Leeroy are rocking Jefferson Airplane and I feel like busting out my bean bag chair and throwing up some paneling…instead, I grabbed a pen and came up with this. Bring your own pen and see what you find inspired at My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog…I may be a little late to the party…but I made it! 
You know me. If you can go dark and find the hard way, then well, RUNAWAY!
I like how you found angst in this inspiration. You did great.
This is some great writing. I could feel it, the slivers and all. Love what you did with the song.
And if you are “late” I am REALLY behind
Awesome! Dark without being campy, which can really be a challenge.
I’m gonna have nightmares about the shovel.
Ouch! You always surprise and delight me in the reading.
Excellent…raw and good.
Lady Nyo